Behind the Badge Read online

  “Look, Whitney…” Reginald pursed his lips and shook his head. “I love that you’re a cop, and I love that you believe you work with people who understand what being a cop is supposed to mean. But I’m telling you… there’s no winning this. There never has been, and there never will be. Because at the end of the day, the people pulling the strings? They don’t look like you and me.”

  “If that’s true?” Blankenship had a hard time believing that – because if it was, then had the Civil Rights era actually meant anything? “Then I pity anyone from downtown who stands in my team’s way.”

  “And I will pity your team when they’re on the unemployment line,” Reginald shot back.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Officer Carter,” Jill greeted as she pushed her way through the glass door leading into the conference room adjacent to Captain Richards' office. Whereas much of the precinct was dimly lit, the conference room was bathed in sunlight pouring in through the blinds. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I'm Detective Andersen.”

  Nolan Carter -- all six feet, five inches of him -- stood and gave Jill a sturdy handshake. It was the sort of handshake that would have left her hand cramping were she a normal person, but her reinforced skeleton gave her the bearings necessary to take the grip in stride. Carter's smile was as plastic as they came, not even coming close to reaching his eyes. “Of course,” he said before returning to his seat. “Sergeant Renault said this was urgent.”

  “It is,” Jill said, taking her seat across from Carter and pulling a small stack of glossy photographs from the black leather-bound notepad in front of her. “We're working the homicide of a 17-year-old boy named Devin Buckner, and we're trying to track down the unmarked van present at the crime scene.” Sliding the photographs across the mahogany table, she never once broke eye contact. “Do you recognize this van?”

  Carter frowned when he took the first photograph into his hand, the crease in his forehead exaggerated by the shadows afforded by the blinds.

  “I don't get it,” he said. “I haven't driven this thing in over a year.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Downtown refused to pay for replacement brakes and a new front end,” Carter explained, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “So as far as I knew, it went off to the scrap heap.”

  “Why would this van need all those repairs?” Jill asked. “Aside from the brakes and the front end, I mean.” She began rifling through a series of hand-scribbled notes on yellow legal pad paper. “Records show repairs for the transmission, body work on the rear end, engine tune-ups far more frequent than the manufacturer recommends... it's almost as if this vehicle was being pushed well past its limits on a regular basis.”

  Anger flashed in Carter's hazel eyes, and Jill could see the twitch in his arms. “What are you implying, Detective?”

  “I'm doing you a favor, Officer,” Jill began, pulling another series of images, grainy stills form surveillance footage, from her notepad. “We could be having this conversation in one of the interrogation rooms. But from one badge to another, I think you deserve the benefit of the doubt... for now.”

  “Lady, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Three men and a woman, all wearing masks, shot Devin Buckner in the temple, execution style, this morning on the corner of Madison and Tyson. But before they did that, they took him on a trip... in an unmarked white van that looks a lot like your old tactical ride. This child was already on his last legs before the bullet lodged into his brain. Broken nose, shattered collarbone, dislocated shoulder, kneecap snapped in two... and the autopsy's not even finished yet.”

  Jill studied Carter as she read off the laundry list of injuries, her own stomach churning in a mix of bile and hatred. With the revelation of each new injury, she saw Carter's eyes divert to a random spot on the table instead of the photographs splayed out before him. His brow furrowed until he was sitting in a full scowl, his jaw clenched and the tension making his shoulders taut. Yet Jill never once tore her gaze from him.

  “A year ago, something similar happened to Pedro Mendoza.” Jill paused to study Carter's reaction. He had none. “Before Pedro, there was Reggie Dawson. Before him, Andre Scofield. Donald Wilson, LaTrice Samuels, Benjamin Cartwright, Lamar Goodwin... do you see where I'm going with this?”

  “Look,” Carter finally spoke, his hands clenched into fists as they rested on the table, “you got something to say, just come right out and say it.”

  Jill held his stare, grateful for the late nights of poker she used to enjoy with Captain Richards while she was still in the Academy. If nothing else, he taught her a mean poker face. Carter blinked after what felt like several minutes, and his shoulders slumped. Carter wasn’t bad in that department, either; his face held no expression when Jill rattled off the other names. Then again, if this man was capable of killing a teenager in cold blood, having it thrown in his face likely wouldn’t be a bother.

  “Officer Carter,” she said, pointing at the still from the video of Devin's murder, “is that your van?”

  The look of disgust on Carter's face was palpable. “No.”

  Jill sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Officer, what caliber handgun do you have?”

  Carter leaned forward. “The fuck kinda question is that?”

  “A legitimate one,” she shot back. “The handgun the department issued you when you received your badge... what kind is it?”

  Carter leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and raising his chin so that he was looking over his nose at Jill. He crossed his legs at the ankles, the scowl on his face slowly morphing into a self-important smirk the longer the silence dragged on. Not that the silence surprised Jill; she had her suspicions that Officer Carter would clam up once he realized the nature of her questions. It still annoyed her, but it wasn't that surprising.

  “Officer Carter,” she cautioned, “you can answer the question in here, or in Interrogation.”

  “Sig P230,” Carter spat.

  “And are you familiar with Devin Buckner?”

  “Never met the kid in my life.”

  Jill pulled out a head shot of the victim, one the family had provided. “What about now?”

  “We're done here.” Carter pushed himself out of his chair and yanked the door to the conference room open. “You wanna harass me again, Detective, make sure you go through my captain first. Or better yet, keep your nose out of shit that doesn't concern you before someone comes for your badge.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It wasn't unusual for Jeff Downs to still be in his office long after the sun had set for the night. As one of the Baltimore Police Department's highest-ranking officials, he often worked long hours, even if his hours were far steadier than most officers and detectives. Still, Downs had gone the last two days without seeing his wife awake; he had spent the better part of the past day stuck in meetings: poring over crime stats, closure rates, budget reports... another round of potential layoffs and a hiring freeze thanks to yet another funding slash courtesy of Annapolis.

  One meeting even touched on the subject of the vigilante Bounty, but no one in the Bishop -- the nickname given to the BPD's overall headquarters downtown -- seemed to think that was a priority. Normally, Downs would've disagreed, but once news broke of the teenager who was killed just north of downtown and details began trickling in, Downs knew something more important had come. And if his worst fears were right, this had a chance to send the entire city into a tailspin once more.

  But to this point, there was nothing more that could be done. Captain Richards had given him the personal assurance that his Homicide team had it covered, and if half of what Downs had heard about Detective Andersen was true, then the investigation was in fine hands. The local media didn't know much at this point outside of the fact that Devin Buckner had been murdered, and since he was a minor, they weren't giving much out to the public. That was a ticking time bomb, though, and Downs wouldn't be at all
surprised if he woke up the next morning to find it splashed across the front page of the Sun, above the fold.

  But that was a matter for another day. Annie was expecting him for dinner, and he had best be on his way.

  “Detective,” Downs said with a smile, his phone cradled against his ear. “Colonel Downs. We met earlier this afternoon in Captain Richards' office? Listen, just... putting this out there for you, but we have an opening for the Sergeant's exam two weeks from now. Are you interested?”

  A beat.

  “No, I understand. You've got a lot on your plate at the moment.”

  Another beat.

  “Well, take some time, think it over. I'll keep the spot open until you decide. Have a good night, Detective.”

  He couldn't hide the smile on his face as he hung up the phone; Richards had spent the last three-plus years waxing poetic about Detective Andersen, and by all accounts, she was a credit to the force and the city. If half of what the captain had told Downs over countless drinks and even more hands of poker was true, the colonel looked forward to the day she could use her influence for bigger and better things -- like perhaps re-shaping department policies.

  As Downs slipped his arms into his suit coat, he turned to see a woman standing in the doorway to his office. She was concealed in shadows, but Downs could clearly see the handgun she had pointed directly at his chest. He fixed the lapels on his coat before slowly raising his arms. It was far from the first time he had been held at gunpoint, but Downs didn't find it any easier with repeated experiences.

  “Colonel Downs,” the woman said as she stepped out of the shadows. Her red hair stopped at her chin, and the smile on her face wasn't unlike those Downs used to find on suspects in Interrogation who knew what they had done and simply... didn't care. What bothered Downs the most, though, was that he recognized the woman. Not that he had ever seen her in-person before, but he remembered seeing her photograph in departmental files before.

  “Who are you?” was all Downs could muster.

  “I understand you had a meeting today,” the woman practically cooed, her methodical steps closing the distance between herself and Downs far quicker than he expected. His eyes followed her as she wandered to his right, before she disappeared out of his line of sight and he felt the barrel of her gun pressed into the small of his back.

  “Lotta meetings,” he choked out. “Care to be more specific?”

  “That bitch over at the Seventh,” the woman snarled into Downs' ear, pressing her weapon harder against his back. “What did you tell her?”

  Downs rolled his eyes. “You expect me to discuss police business with a stranger?”

  The woman slammed the butt of her gun against the back of Downs' head, watching as he crumpled face-first to the floor. A small trickle of blood ran down the right side of his head, across his temple and dripping onto the carpet. She smiled as she holstered her weapon, watching as a tall man dressed entirely in black and holding a ski mask in his right hand entered the office.

  “Geez, Kayla,” Nolan Carter quipped. “I leave you alone for five minutes...”

  “He wouldn't talk,” she said with a shrug.

  “Well, I know just the thing for that.” Carter dropped into a crouch near Downs, watching the older man writhe and grunt in pain. “What do ya say, Colonel? Wanna go for a ride?”

  CHAPTER 14

  The text from Brian couldn't have come at a better time, just minutes after Officer Carter had stormed out of the conference room, undoubtedly to tattle to his precinct commander about just how unfairly another cop had treated him. Captain Richards would undoubtedly receive a call about that the next day, and Jill was sorry he wasn't in his office at the moment so she could give him the appropriate warning. But her older brother had unknowingly come to the rescue in that moment, a simple question about dinner on her screen bringing a smile to her face.

  She had expected more of an adjustment period between the two of them after Brian Andersen had learned her secret. They had already been on shaky ground, learning to get along again after years of being at each other's proverbial throats. When he first learned of her secret life as the vigilante known as Bounty, the anger and resentment had returned. Fortunately for Jill, it was short-lived, and by the time the dust settled on her father's execution and the mysterious faction known as the Order was dismantled from within, they began mending bridges once more.

  Now, whenever Jill saw her brother wheeling her way, the smile on her face was broad and the hug she flung around his shoulders was automatic. For everything the Andersen family had endured over the last decade and a half, she was glad to have her brother back. A quiet pasta dinner in the kitchen where they spent their childhoods was a nice bonus and a welcome reprieve.

  “I don't know how you do it,” Brian admitted as he cracked open two bottles of beer and handed one to his sister. “Working the murder of a child.”

  “The fact that our victim's a child isn't the hard part,” Jill said before taking a long first swig.

  Brian arched a brow, swirling his first bite of pasta onto his fork. “I'm gonna have to break out the scotch, aren't I?”

  Jill shook her head and managed a laugh, glad that they were back to a place where her younger brother's sense of humor could bring a smile out of her regardless of the kind of day she was having. She ducked her head and dove into her dinner, just now realizing she had worked straight through lunch. She was better about forcing herself to eat during the day than she had been in her earliest days as a detective, but sometimes the workload kept her too busy to notice her rumbling stomach.

  “No, it's...” Jill shook her head as she poked at a meatball. “I don't like the direction this case is taking.”

  “You found a teenager with a bullet in his head,” Brian countered. “What's there to like?”

  Taking another bite, Jill set down her fork and let her fingers gently trail over the label on her beer bottle. The condensation was just starting to form, chilled beads teasing her fingertips. Every time she replayed her conversation with Officer Carter in her head, Jill felt her anger rising to a boil again. Even if Carter wasn't guilty of murder, he was at the very least a smarmy little bastard who could stand to have his nose bashed in. Only problem was, if Jill did that, she would probably fracture his skull.

  Tempting, but... no.

  “I'm gonna say something,” Jill began, reaching across the table to rest her free hand atop her brother's, “and I need you not to freak.”

  “Jill,” Brian said around another bite of pasta, “unless you've got a new superhero identity, I don't think anything you say will make me freak.”

  “I think cops might be responsible for Devin Buckner's death.”

  Brain set down his fork and grabbed his beer. “Except that.”

  “It's just a theory,” Jill replied far too hastily. “But... traffic cams showed an unmarked white van skidding through the corner of Madison and Tyson, screaming to a halt, and four masked figures tossing Devin to the sidewalk and shooting him in the head.” She shook her head and downed half of what was left on her beer. “Autopsy shows several significant injuries that occurred in the minutes prior to his death. Colonel Downs showed us photos of a decommissioned tactical van that looks a lot like the van used in this crime. And... when I spoke with Officer Carter, he was...” She shook her head. “Uncooperative.”

  “Carter,” Brian repeated with a frown. “Out of the Fourth?”

  “Yep. That's the one. All testosterone and muscles.”

  “His record's not as squeaky clean as the Bishop would have you believe,” Brian explained between bites. “He's got a buddy downtown who hides a lot of his warts.”

  “So help me, if the next words out of your mouth are 'David Gregor,' I'm throwing this meatball at you.”

  “No, this is purely an inside thing.” Brian polished off his first beer. “It's not just Carter, either. There are three others at that precinct in on his little ring.”

  Jill rose
from her seat to grab two more beers out of the fridge. “How am I just now hearing about this?”

  “Because downtown doesn't want anyone knowing,” Brian said. “Remember how shocked the city was when our office didn't press charges in Mendoza's murder?”

  “How could I forget?” Jill shook her head; the memory of the protests engulfing downtown were as vivid as if they had happened the day before. The last thing Jill wanted was a repeat of that. “I thought this city was gonna burn to the ground.”

  “Someone in the Commissioner's office withheld evidence from us,” Brian explained. “It didn't matter how many times the DA wagged her finger for the cameras, we never got the cooperation we needed to get anything that stuck. So the people who killed Pedro Mendoza walked.”

  “And kept their badges,” Jill muttered, twisting the cap off the second beer and chugging. “You said there were three others with Carter?”

  “We've only been able to identify one of them,” Brian explained. “Officer Kayla Stevenson.”

  Jill frowned. “Where do I know that name?”

  “She roughed up a suspect in Interrogation a few years back. Broke his nose.” Brian took another bite of pasta. “Once the suspect was cleared, he turned around and sued the city. Judge awarded the guy five million large and she almost lost her job.”

  “Let me guess... same benefactor as Carter?”

  “You got it.” Brian reached for a garlic breadstick, breaking it in half before dipping it in his marinara sauce. “I almost quit when we announced there wouldn't be any charges.”

  “Well, if I have my way,” Jill said, grabbing a breadstick of her own and biting into it, “they won't walk this time.”

  “Just be careful,” Brian warned. “If you're right, the blowback from downtown will be huge.”